


Blue Days, Long Nights

by solnyshkonatalia



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, Getting Together, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, Lobotomy, M/M, Medical Procedures, Medical Torture, Mental Institutions, Non-Consensual Electroconvulsive Therapy, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Suicidal Thoughts, Tony Stark Has A Heart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:55:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24135460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solnyshkonatalia/pseuds/solnyshkonatalia
Summary: In which Steve Rogers experiences significant trauma at the hands of conversion therapists and struggles to cope.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 9
Kudos: 78





	Blue Days, Long Nights

_ June 4, 1943 _

_ Steve stared blankly at the wall behind the psychologist’s head and willed himself to remain calm. He was terrified, and his every instinct was telling him to fight, but he knew that it was pointless. He would only come out looking even weaker than he already did. He remembered the cop who’d arrested him, sneering and spitting in his face when he’d struggled.  _ Yeah, keep kickin’, you fuckin’ fairy. I’ve got all night.

_ At least his struggle had given the man he’d been with enough time to get away. Steve hoped he’d made it home. Did he have a wife? A kid? Back in some downtown brownstone waiting for him? Or was he like Steve: alone in the world. _

_ Steve had no one. Well, no one except Bucky. But, no wife, no kids, no family, because he was a sick man. He’d ended up here, carted off to Bellevue to die in a looney bin cell, because he deserved it. He shuddered and clenched his sweaty hands into fists.  _ Don’t fight, Rogers. Don’t fuckin’ cry, neither. Keep it together.

_ “My name is Dr. Faustus,” the psychologist said, then, noting Steve’s clear distress, “Don’t worry, kid. You’re here because we want to help you, and Bellevue is the best facility of its kind in the world. This is better than prison, don’t you think?” _

_ Steve’s jaw ached from gritting his teeth.  _ This is no different from prison,  _ he didn’t say. Instead, he dug his fingernails into his thighs and nodded. _

_ “Now, why don’t you tell me why you’re here?” _

_ “Um… I, I mean…” Steve floundered, cheeks burning. His hands shook in his lap. Dr. Faustus smiled a pleasant little smile. _

_ “It’s okay,” he said. “Good, in fact. Shame is a very healthy thing when it comes to these types of transgressions.” _

_ “I’m not ashamed,” Steve snapped, eyes ablaze. It wasn’t true, of course. Steve was exceedingly ashamed of the things he’d done, but why should he give this asshole the satisfaction? Dr. Faustus’ face hardened. _

_ “Very well, Mr. Rogers. Just tell me what you did to get yourself arrested, then.” _

_ - _

_ June 3, 1943 _

_ The air in Brooklyn was muggy, even at two AM, and carried the hot smell of rotting garbage through the alleyway. Still, it was a welcome respite from the stale air in the bar. Steve gasped his first breath of fresh air in hours as he stumbled through a side door into the alleyway, then went back to kissing the handsome man he had met inside, focused solely on the intoxicating taste of cigarettes and sweat. He had been in this alleyway a hundred times before, and he had never caught so much as a passing glance from any passersby. It was a seedy neighborhood, and its residents were hardly the crime-watch type. _

_ Steve gasped for another breath and found himself being pushed to his knees in the dirt behind a dumpster. At the same time that the man he was with undid his fly and pulled out his cock, a drunk, off-duty cop stumbled down the alleyway to take a piss behind the very same dumpster. _

_ June 4, 1943 _

_ Steve added several unnecessarily graphic details to the story, just to see if he could make the psychologist squirm, but, in fact, he was the one who had to stop himself from cringing with the shame he felt. Dr. Faustus just frowned and took notes as Steve spoke. _

Obviously he thinks I’m sick,  _ he thought.  _ I  _ am _ sick.

_ “Well, Mr. Rogers,” Dr. Faustus said. “While that story was certainly disgusting enough to warrant several questions, I suppose the only one that matters is this: do you even want to get better?” _

_ “There’s nothing wrong with me,” Steve said.  _ Please fix me, _ he didn’t say. _

_ “Well, then.” Dr. Faustus shut his notebook. “I suppose you’d better settle in for a long stay here.” _

-

September 8, 2000

Steve was still trying to settle into his new home in Stark Tower, in a new century, in a new world. Nine months since being pulled out of the ice, he felt no closer to adjusting than he had been when they had first defrosted him.  _ Everything _ was different: the music, the food, the people, the supervillains. Even though he’d been allowed to leave his tiny S.H.I.E.L.D. quarters and the accompanying constant surveillance, and even though he had found companionship, somewhat, with the Avengers, and purpose, somewhat, with their missions, he felt as uneasy as ever.

He was trying to make the best of a bad situation, though; trying to find a new community instead of dwelling on the one he had lost. If there was anything Steve Rogers was, it was adaptable. He had joined a church, even though it was strange that mass was no longer conducted in Latin, and he tried to spend some time with the other Avengers every day. There were about a million things, though, which complicated his efforts, not least of which was the media.

Steve didn’t fully understand the way the news operated now—it seemed to him that most outlets were looking more for drama than for real news—but he got caught up in their crosshairs regularly enough that he was beginning to adjust. The only person they liked to interview more than him was Tony, but even Tony couldn’t answer their seemingly endless questions.

Truth be told, the Avengers had been a PR nightmare pretty much since the beginning, which was the primary reason Steve was scheduled that day to appear on  _ The Rosie O’Donnell Show.  _ The S.H.I.E.L.D. higher-ups thought it would do good to humanize them in the media. It was Tony who escorted him to the studio, since he tended to have the most insight when it came to the media, being that he had practically grown up in the spotlight.

Tony paced nearby as one of the studio techs adjusted the tiny microphone attached to Steve’s lapel.

“Okay, you’ve got this,” Tony said, sounding distinctly like he  _ didn’t _ believe that. “They’ve got a list of pre-approved questions, and it shouldn’t be anything too hard. Just… be as honest as you can without making us look bad, yeah? Because you’re a terrible liar.”

“I’m fine, Tony,” Steve said. “You really didn’t have to come with me.”

“Yeah, you’ll be fine.” Tony sighed as another tech started to rush Steve away and onto the stage. Tony called after him, “Good luck!”

-

_ July 4, 1943 _

_ Steve’s head felt like it was full of cotton, still pounding steadily almost twenty-four hours after his most recent bout of electroshock therapy. Honestly, he was surprised that his frail heart and body had stood up to so many rounds of electrocution. Lately, he'd found himself wishing that it would just give up, one of these days. The thought was terrifying, but death would be better than the constant pain. _

_ He had just been finally allowed to leave his room, and he trudged his way to the hospital’s common area. _

_ A group was gathered in one corner watching two patients play chess, two orderlies standing five feet away from them. One of the men Steve had seen before in his wing was sitting in an armchair in the center of the room, staring catatonically at the wall. Steve looked around, panic rising as he couldn’t decide where to go. His brain was working too slowly. _

_ The only other man in the room was sitting alone at a table, focused on writing in a little leather-bound notebook. Steve finally made up his mind, and he took the seat across from him. _

_ “Hi,” he said. “I’m Steve.” _

_ “Noah,” the man said. His voice was rough, like he’d been screaming. _

_ “What are you writing?” Steve asked. Noah frowned. _

_ “Poetry.” _

_ “About what?” Noah looked up just in time to see Steve flinch at a rush of pain in his head, and his frown softened somewhat. He looked around, and then slid his closed fist across the table. _

_ “Electroshock?” he asked. “Take this. It’ll help with the pain.” _ __  
_  
_ __ Noah opened his fist then withdrew his hand, leaving behind two little round pills on the table. Steve glanced to his left, but the orderlies weren’t looking at them, so he took the pills and slid them into his underwear—his hospital-issued clothes had no pockets.

_ “What is it?” he asked. _

_ “It’s medicine,” Noah said, slowly, like Steve was stupid. _

_ “So it’s drugs.” _

_ “Sure, call it what you want. It’ll help, though.” _

_ “Thanks.” _

_ “No problem, Steve. Now, can I get back to writing?” _

-

September 8, 2000

“So, Captain, I have to ask: how do you feel about Don’t Ask Don’t Tell?” O’Donnell asked. So far, the interview had gone smoothly. She had, as promised, stuck to the pre-approved questions that Steve had spent most of the night before practicing with Tony, but this was a curveball. Steve furrowed his brow and looked frantically to the side of the stage, where Tony was wide-eyed and shaking his head.

“Excuse me?” Steve managed.

“Well, a very high-ranking navy seal was discharged this morning, so I have to wonder, and I’m sure you can agree with me: isn’t it time that we dispose of this antiquated law?”

“I’m… I don’t know…?” Steve scrambled. “I don’t think this was on the…?”

Tony had buried his head in his hands, and Steve knew it was time to cut off this line of questioning as soon as he got the chance.

“Yes, of course. I don’t mean to ambush you, Captain Rogers.” She did sound genuinely apologetic, for what it was worth. “We just got information on this incident moments before going on air. Do you have any comment?”

“I don’t,” Steve said, firmly, finally gathering himself. “I’m sorry, Ms. O’Donnell. I have no comment.”

“Alright, then,” she said, but her eyes were filled with a glee that told Steve that this was most certainly going to turn into a media circus in the next several days. When the show ended and Steve approached Tony, he knew that his instinct had been right.

“Jesus, Rogers,” he said. “This is gonna be a mess. Just for future reference, you  _ never  _ say ‘no comment’ on live TV. That’s only for paparazzi. It makes you look ignorant at best, dodgy at worst.  _ Especially  _ with something as controversial as Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell.”

“I… I’m sorry, Tony,” Steve said, head lowered. He felt bad, knowing that most of the clean-up for his messes in the media went not to S.H.I.E.L.D., but to Tony. “I just didn’t know what to say. I don’t even know what that is!”

“You don’t know what…” Tony trailed off, then his eyes blew wide. “Holy shit, Cap, no one told you about Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell? What am I talking about—of course they didn’t. God, S.H.I.E.L.D. is worthless. How did they not think to tell you this? You work for the  _ military _ for fuck’s sake!”

“Tony!” Steve cut off Tony’s fretting. “Hey, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to create trouble for you, but can you please just tell me what it is, just so I know in the future?”

“Okay, okay, basically, it’s this shitty law that was instituted in the early nineties that bars openly gay people from serving in the military. It’s super controversial, but if you ask me…”

“Wait, hold on.” Steve shook his head. “Why is it so controversial? Wouldn’t they just go to jail for talking about it in the first place?”

“Why would they go to jail?” Tony sounded genuinely confused, and then realization settled on his face and he frowned. “Oh, Steve, Jesus. S.H.I.E.L.D. has  _ really _ done a hack job on your re-education, haven’t they? Being gay hasn’t been illegal in New York since 1980.”

Steve felt like his brain was lagging behind him, and when he finally managed to respond, it came out weak and strangled.

“What?”

“Yeah,” Tony said with a shrug. “I mean, it’s still frowned upon by some idiots, but it’s not a big deal. No one goes to jail for it in the U.S. anymore.”

“Oh.” Steve took a moment to recalibrate, then said, “Okay, well… we should probably go now, right? You’re a busy man, and I’ve got places to be, too. I’ll just take the subway back to the tower, just… I need some time to myself. You understand.”

“Yeah, uh…” Tony looked a bit baffled, but just nodded. “Sure, Cap. I’ll catch you at home later.”

-

_ August 28, 1943 _

_ Over the next month and several weeks, Steve and Noah grew closer. Steve wasn’t sure where Noah got his supply of the pills, which he soon learned were a small dose of opium. While Steve worried about the fact that he was apparently becoming a drug addict, Noah always had an extra pill for him, and they really did help with the pain. And, they made him feel amazing, so that, even for an hour, he could forget about the fact that he was stuck in the hellscape that was Bellevue. _

_ Not to mention, it was the first time in his life that  _ all _ of his minor and major aches and pains had just evaporated. _

_ He and Noah had become friends, as well, which seemed a true miracle given their rather dim circumstances. Noah let Steve see his poetry, which was wonderful. And, he knew the orderlies’ night patrol schedule, so he smuggled Steve a watch, and some nights, they would meet for half-an-hour in the common room. _

_ The first time Noah kissed him, Steve was filled with shame, but it was also the first time he’d felt alive in months. So, he’d kissed back. Just one moment of joy in the middle of hell. _

_ Then, on one night in August, after they’d each taken a dose and lay down on the floor, head to foot, Noah told Steve about his plan to escape. _

-

2000

Finding opium had been easy enough in the forties. In the hospital, Noah had always had it, and in the war, it hadn’t been unusual to find someone with a pipe and a fix. It wasn’t so easy in the 21st century. When Steve had gotten particularly low one day, he had, in a moment of utter shame, asked Tony about it. Tony had laughed at him, and Steve had played it off as a joke. Then he’d found out that the closest thing in modern days that he could find were a class of painkillers, and even the strongest ones weren’t strong enough to stand up to his super-soldier metabolism.

So, after a particularly bad fight with a group of killer robot insects where Steve had gotten knocked around a bit more than usual, he’d approached Tony and asked if there was any chance he could make a painkiller that would stand up to his metabolism. Tony had agreed, and he’d given Steve enough to last him a year, just in case.

It had lasted two months, and the next time he needed his fix, he’d gone to someone at S.H.I.E.L.D. R & D so Tony wouldn't know.

Then, to avoid suspicion, he’d cut down his use to a more reasonable amount. Still, he needed it, and he knew firsthand how dangerous it was to  _ need  _ anything.

-

_ September 15, 1943 _

_ The night they tried to escape, things went sideways. Steve should have known, with his luck, that they would. He and Noah were high, running for the unlocked back door Noah had found months earlier, when an orderly came out of the staff bathroom. _

_ Steve had just enough time to yell at Noah, who was a good ten feet ahead of him, to keep running before the orderly stuck him with a needle, and he was being dragged away as he fell unconscious. _

-

October 15, 2000

It had been a bad month. One of the worst Steve had had in a while, in fact. As predicted, the media had been having a field day with his Rosie O’Donnell interview, and Tony’s advice had been to stay out of the public eye until it cooled down. So, Steve had spent a week holed up in his room, high for most of that time, and wondering what the fuck he was even still doing alive when everyone he loved, for the most part, had been dead for a long, long time, and the only thing he had remaining from his pre-ice days was a drug addiction caused by chronic pain he no longer even experienced.

Then, to make matters worse, there hadn't been a single call to assemble. So, Steve spent another week hiding away from the world. Then another. Then another.

Every day, he considered ending it all. He wasn't afraid of death anymore, and he had the means sitting on his nightstand in an orange pill bottle. And, even more means in a holster in his nightstand drawer. Hell, he could walk up to the roof at any moment and jump. So what the fuck was stopping him?

The short and long of it was: Tony. Tony was stopping him. Because somehow, every day, Tony knocked on his bedroom door while he was contemplating taking a bullet to the brain. He came bearing Chinese takeout, or a movie Steve hadn't seen yet, or, one time,  _ board games _ . Steve would answer the door in a daze and spend the next three to four hours providing a quality of company rivaled by basically everyone else on Earth. Yet, somehow, Tony kept coming back, and Steve was beginning to resent the pity committee.

Not to mention, it was becoming harder to deny the warm feeling in his chest whenever Tony came around, and Steve was sick of it. He was sick of himself, sick of his broken brain, and his stupid broken fucking heart that just couldn't love women the way it was supposed to, even after everything Steve had been through.

-

_ September 15, 1943 _

_ When he woke up, Steve was lying prostrate on a medical examination table with a bright light hanging over his head and men in white coats milling about. He tried to struggle, but realized quickly that he was restrained at his wrists and ankles. Everything hurt. Steve whimpered and tugged at the restraints. He moaned Noah’s name, miserable and aching, and one of the doctors turned. _

_ “Oh good, you're awake,” he said. “You've certainly made your fair share of trouble for us this evening. Thanks to you, one of our other patients escaped.” _

_ “Oh, thank God,” Steve breathed.  _ Noah is safe.

_ “Yes, well, it's very unfortunate news for you.” The doctor frowned. “The good news is, you'll be released into the custody of your next of kin within the next twenty four hours…” _

_ Steve furrowed his brows.  _ Why would they let me go?  _ The aides began setting up the electroshock system while the doctor who had spoken to Steve grabbed a long, pointed instrument—a pick—from a table outside of Steve’s line of sight and held it up for him to see. _

_ “The bad news,” he began, and his frown turned into a smirk, “is that we're going to play around with your brain a bit, first.” _

_ One of the aides shoved a dirty towel into Steve’s mouth, and he knew to bite down. He barely had time to register terror at the doctor's words before the first shock scrambled all rational thought. _

-

October 16, 2000

Every day, after Tony left, Steve promised himself he would do it. Before Tony could return to torment him with his gorgeous fucking eyes and his beautiful, kind soul that defied all Steve's expectations, Steve would kill himself. And, every day, he found a reason to put it off.

He was really wishing he had just done it when Tony came by that particular October day. Something was off, and Steve wished he had been sober enough to notice it before inviting Tony in and sitting beside him on the couch. However, when he sat down, he noticed it immediately.

Tony was frowning, shaking in the hands, even, which meant something was wrong. For all the times Tony had been there for him, Steve owed him this much:

“Tony, what's wrong?” he asked.

“Christ, this is hard,” Tony said, refusing to make eye contact. Then, suddenly, he was making  _ uncomfortable  _ eye contact. Steve shriveled away from it. “Okay, here goes nothing. You're not allowed to hit me, okay? Okay. Listen… I think you need help. I want to help you.”

Steve frowned and asked, “What do I need help with?”

“I’m… I'm sorry I didn't say anything earlier, but I wanted to just observe and make sure I wasn't totally jumping to conclusions but… Look, I know you've been miserable, and I…” There was a moment where Tony appeared to hold his breath, so Steve held his, as well, terrified of what was coming. Then, it came, and it was worse than he could have imagined. “Steve, I know you've been using those pills I gave you to get high.”

Steve felt like he'd been shot.

“I… what? I mean, no!” Steve spluttered. “I haven't, Tony, I swear—”

“It's okay! Hey, it's okay. Listen, Mark, from S.H.I.E.L.D. R & D, mentioned to me that you asked him to make painkillers for you. I told him that was funny, because I'd already made some for you. And, at first, I thought you were stockpiling them. To, you know…” Tony didn’t finish, but Steve  _ did _ know. He felt nauseous. Tony knew way too much. “That's partially why I started to come here every day. I just… wanted you to know you weren't totally alone. But, Steve,” Tony pointed past Steve's bed to the nightstand. “That bottle was almost completely full with enough superhero oxycodone to tide you over until 2002 the first day I came. It's almost empty now. I'm worried about you! Can you just tell me what's going on?”

“It's nothing,” Steve snapped. “Seriously, it's none of your business!”

“Actually, it is my business!” Tony fired back. “You're my friend, and I want you to be happy, but you're clearly not! You've been acting so weird this past month, even for you, and I know there's something you're not telling me. Not to mention that I apparently helped fuel your drug addiction!”

“It's nothing,” Steve repeated. “Look, I had a rough time growing up. I was in a lot of pain most of the time, so when I found something that helped…”

“Opium,” Tony breathed. “You asked me where to get opium. You weren't joking.”

Steve nodded and averted his eyes to the floor. It was a partial truth, but it was the only one he was ready to tell Tony. Unfortunately for him, Tony was persistent.

“Jesus Christ,” he said. “Where did you even  _ get _ it?”

“I grew up surrounded by artists, Tony,” Steve said.

“Yeah, but there's no way you just stumbled on it. It would have been easy enough to get, but opium had its heyday in the 1800s. You wouldn't have gotten it just anywhere.”

“Goddammit!” Steve raged, standing from the couch and running his hands through his hair, tugging until his scalp burned. “I'm done talking about this. Please, just go.”

-

_ September 16, 1943 _

_ When Steve woke again, his head hurt worse than it ever had before. His eyes felt swollen and aching, but everything in his head was blissfully quiet, static. The world had soft edges around it, and there wasn't a thought in his head besides how much it hurt. _

_ The first thing he saw when everything began to focus, just slightly, was Bucky standing over him. He was in Bucky’s living room. Then, he noticed the other men standing beside him. He didn't care to know who they were, though. He didn't even care that Bucky was there. He shut his eyes again. _

_ “Do you think your serum can fix him?” Bucky’s voice drifted into his consciousness, sounding like it was coming through water. _

_ “Let's hope,” one of the other men said in an unfamiliar accent. “Look at the bright side. This could be the best thing to ever happen to him. Could heal  _ everything _ , not just his brain.” _

_ “There's no bright side to this,” Bucky growled. “My best friend was just lobotomized for being a homosexual. He never even  _ told  _ me.” Bucky's voice was quiet and pained. “I could have protected him from this.” _

_ “It's going to be alright, Sergeant Barnes. There is a silver lining to this. Your friend gets to heal, and you  _ did _ say he always wanted to join the military.” _

_ Steve drifted off again, into a silent, dreamless sleep. _

-

_ The next time Steve woke up, everything about him had changed. Well, everything except the one thing he wished would change more than anything else. It seemed that the universe wanted him to suffer. _

-

October 16, 2000

Steve hadn't even realized he'd begun to spiral until Tony’s frantic voice called him back to reality. His head was spinning, and everything in the world was too much. He just wanted Tony to leave so he could lie down. At the same time, he wanted Tony to stay forever, and that unbidden thought sent him back into his apparent panic attack.

“Steve, Steve, c’mon,” Tony pleaded, and Steve realized Tony was gripping his shoulders like a vise. “Hey, you're scaring me. Steve, breathe for me.”

Steve must not have done an adequate job of breathing for him (and really, the phrasing of that did nothing to calm his nerves), because the next thing he knew, Tony’s mouth was on his, hot and dry and way,  _ way _ too much. Steve's brain was on fire, and then it was completely silent, and then, against his every wish, his hands were reaching for the front of Tony’s shirt. He was tugging Tony in closer, kissing him back when he should have been pushing him far, far away.

It only lasted a moment before he leapt back, shaking like a leaf, and Tony was staring back at him with dazed, stupid doe eyes. Suddenly, Steve couldn't stop thinking about the last person he had kissed. The memories came like a waterfall: the memories of breathing Noah’s same air like they would die without each other, the memory of running and running, the memory of moaning Noah’s name on that examination table, feeling like a cadaver who just happened to be, only by the most scientific definition, still alive.

He remembered suddenly, for the first time since it had happened, the excruciating feeling as the pick pierced the bone behind his eye.

“You need to leave,” he whimpered, wrapping his arms around himself as if he could protect himself—as if he had ever been able to protect himself from his own deviant, evil desires.

He realized, painfully, as Tony had the presence of mind to snatch Steve’s remaining pills from the nightstand on his way out, that he loved Tony, and that was a very, very bad thought. Much worse than the memories.

-

October 25, 2000

It had been another week, and there had been no sign of Tony. Not that Steve was focused exclusively on his disgusting pining over the phantom pains that had returned after one day without his medicine. God, he was so fucked.

It was another night where he sat on his bed with a gun in his hands, contemplating, contemplating. One shot. That would be all it would take; even Captain America couldn't survive a gunshot wound to the head.

He sighed and put the gun back in its drawer.

-

October 28, 2000

It took Steve a solid minute to answer the knocking on the door, and he was so ashamed to admit the relief he felt when he saw Tony. Tony looked equally relieved to see him, though, and he shoved his way past Steve into the bedroom.

“I know what this is all about,” he said, gently, like he was terrified of Steve's reaction. “God, Steve, I don't even know what to say.”

“What are you talking about, Tony?” Steve asked.

“I know about your time in Bellevue,” he whispered. “The… I know about the lobotomy, and the serum.”

Steve knew how he must have looked, but he didn't care because Tony  _ knew _ . No one was supposed to know. How did he…?

“How did you find out?” he choked.

“I went through some of my dad’s old files. I… I didn't know. I’m so fucking sorry. I never would have kissed you if I’d known.”

Steve felt his heart sink.  _ Of course you wouldn't have, _ he thought. He set his face in a hard line.

“Because I’m fucked up,” he said, harsh but unremorseful.

“No, wait, that's not…” Tony spluttered, but Steve just scoffed.

“I know what you mean, Stark, so why don't you just say it? You never would have kissed me if you'd known how  _ fucking  _ damaged I was. It's okay. I wouldn't want me either!”

“Wait, Steve…”

“You know, you may have some bullshit notes your father took when he and Erskine were drilling me for the dirty details of my time in Bellevue, but that  _ doesn't  _ mean you know a damn thing about what I've been through,” Steve spat. He started to turn, so furious that he was ready to storm out of his own bedroom. Then, he felt Tony’s hand on his wrist, went completely slack, weak, let himself be pulled back. Tony spun him around, and then they were kissing again.

It was better, even, than the first time. Still that same lingering shame in the back of Steve’s mind, but he let it go for a moment and moaned when he tried to slide his tongue into Tony's mouth and Tony pulled back.

“Since that appears to be the only way I can calm you down, Cap,” he teased, but he was sounding rather breathless. “I don't think you're damaged. That's not what I meant.”

“I haven't even been high since that last time,” Steve persisted, and Tony seemed just as taken aback as Steve by the vulnerability.

“I wouldn't be upset if you had,” Tony muttered, and he ran a hand through Steve's hair. Steve sighed and leaned into it.

“Okay,” Steve whispered. “That was a lie. But… what did you mean, then?”

“I just meant I wouldn't have kissed you if I thought it would bring up… bad memories.” Tony shook his head and leaned into Steve’s chest. “I do care about you, Steve. More than just about anyone. I would never want to hurt you.”

It was Steve’s turn to brush Tony’s hair with his fingers.

“You never could,” he said. “Clearly, I have a lot of baggage when it comes to my sexuality. And, pretty much everyone I've ever known has died, and my body is completely alien to me, still. And, that's just the beginning of all my bullshit. But… I care about you, too, and I can't just live in the past. It's too fucking painful. I need to move forward. Can you just… I just don't want to talk about this anymore. Not now, at least.”

“Okay.” Tony sniffled, and when he tilted his head back up to look at Steve, his eyes were red and puffy. “Okay. Let's talk about it later. Hey, has anyone introduced you to disco, yet? We could get Saturday Night Fever on pay-per-view.”

“Yeah.” Steve smiled—a genuine smile, for the first time in a long time—and leaned in to kiss Tony again. “Yeah, that sounds perfect.”

**Author's Note:**

> Don't forget to comment and let me know what you think <3


End file.
